Dec. 30, 2009

One of my favorite stories about any major pop star concerns the brilliant soul singer, Otis Redding, and Ahmet Ertegun, the Istanbul-born founder and chairman of Atlantic Records. Although, technically speaking, Redding recorded for Stax Records out of Memphis, TN, Stax was distributed by Atlantic, so Ertegun was the head honcho as far as Redding was concerned. He was also one of the pivotal front office figures in rock & roll history.

Without Ertegun’s persistence and near-religious belief in his artists, soul music, as it came to be called, might never have scaled the commercial heights it did during the empowered, stand-and-deliver 1960s. Such performers as Redding, Ray Charles, Wilson Pickett, and Aretha Franklin may well have wandered the wilderness for much longer than their monumental talents required if not for Ertegun’s rare combination of musical passion and razor-sharp business expertise. He deserved and received respect.

Anyway, the story goes that Redding was a genuinely beloved figure around both the Stax and Atlantic offices, as well as in the recording studio. By all accounts, he was a sweet, gentle-spirited young man whose enthusiasm for life was virulently contagious. He loved to laugh and he loved to sing, and people lit up when he entered a room. Guys wanted to hang with Otis Redding, and women wanted to hang all over him.

But he had a hell of a time with Ahmet Ertegun’s name.

Redding phoned Atlantic’s offices and asked to speak to “Omelet” so often and so consistently over the course of his five years with the label, nobody had the guts to tell him that the chairman's name was actually “Ahmet.” At first, the secretaries thought Redding was joking with them, but when they told Ertegun about it, he began to notice that, yes indeed, one of his star performers regularly referred to him as a fluffy-textured egg dish, without the slightest hint of a smirk.

It was quickly decided that Otis Redding could call Ahmet Ertegun whatever he wanted to call him, as long as he didn’t call him a sonofabitch, which was unlikely since Redding was far too polite to do such a thing, even when he got angry. And nobody ever saw him get angry. So Redding was never hipped to Ertegun's real name.

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Regardless of any trouble he may or may not have had pronouncing Turkish names, Otis Redding was damn-near the greatest male soul singer who ever lived. You could, of course, make arguments for a handful of others - James Brown, Al Green, or Marvin Gaye, anybody? - and you’d be well within your rights. But, in my book, it’s virtually impossible to match Redding for sheer vocal force, even when he was tackling a ballad.

Redding always put his back into it, and then some, and his gift for slowly building up to the Big Grunt was absolutely unparalleled. Otis Redding was Otis Redding, up and down and backwards. He may have been a keen entertainer, but artifice simply wasn’t part of this guy’s playbook. You couldn't help but believe what he sang, because he absolutely meant it.

Just to make my point, here’s a burning hot live performance of one of my favorite Redding tracks, 1966’s “Try a Little Tenderness.” The intensity he brings to the opening strains of this old chestnut exhibits a tough-love form of sensitivity that could only arise from a steady stream of cigarettes, sex, and gospel services, and the backing band, none other than the legendary Booker T. & the M.G.’s, lays down a groove that pulsates as if it’s echoing Otis’ slowly accelerating heartbeat.

Just the way Redding spits out the syllables of the word “anticipating” makes this a classic, and, by the latter half of the song, he's a veritable starburst of down-and-dirty energy. The official vinyl release, which was recorded live in the studio - bands like the M.G.’s don’t need to “sweeten” things with overdubs - is every bit as staggering. It’s got it all over the version Jack Webb recorded, that’s for sure.

Here’s another literal showstopper, which served as the closing moments of Redding’s appearance on the hit British TV show, “Ready Steady Go!” It should be pointed out, though, that every Redding performance, regardless of where it appeared during his onstage timeline, was a showstopper. I wouldn’t be surprised if he broke a sweat and stomped his feet while singing around the cake at his kids’ birthday parties.

This time he’s grinding out a medley of “Can’t Turn You Loose"-“Shake”-“Land of A Thousand Dances.” Apparently, this performance is also supposed to feature Eric Burdon of the Animals. But Burdon sort of backs out after a verse, by which time it's already become obvious that he’s a mere ripple in the wannabe pond, while Redding is a veritable monsoon of rompin’-stompin’, get-outta-my-way emotion. If ever a TV clip could wear your ass out, this is the one.

That’s right, kids. Pop music used to be really cool.

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When Redding died in a plane crash in 1967, at the age of 26, we lost an absolute giant, an artist who carried enough grit and soul for ten men. But, my God, he’s still alive in the music he recorded. You can hear how he approached life in every one of his vocals— he may have been enjoying himself, but he sure as hell wasn’t fooling around. And he went for broke, every single time out of the gate.

Download: Any Otis Redding compilation you can find, with the best one being “Dreams to Remember: The Otis Redding Anthology” (songs recorded 1962-1967.) For a classic live album, make a beeline for “In Person at the Whisky a Go-Go” (1968), and prepare yourself for a mind-frying rendition of “I Can’t Turn You Loose.” And, finally, for one of the more exhilarating soul albums of all time, pick up “Otis Blue/Otis Redding Sings Soul” (1966). If you consider yourself a soul or R&B fan, and those don’t do it for you, please stick to the crap you've been listening to.

Paul Tatara